Spectrum
by Enigma-Eggroll
Summary: A broad range of varied but related ideas, objects, or colors, the individual features of which tend to overlap so as to form a continuous series or sequence for one Steve Rogers.


**Red – 6:30 a.m.**

In the pale winter light, Darcy's skin is the softest pink. She's sprawled in his bed, nestled in sheets only a shade or two lighter than the arms and legs they embrace.

Steve traces patterns across her body, outlining her collarbone and feathering circles across the swell of her breasts. Darcy doesn't open her eyes, but the flush that spreads across her chest and up her neck betrays her awareness. When her lips part, he rubs his chin against her shoulder, the coarse rasp of his beard taking the rosy glow to crimson, and she arches into him. Her body is warm, mouth hot, and it stokes the fire that's already burning inside.

There is no slow for them, there never is, not when the desire takes over. They're together and they're moving and it's an inferno now, Darcy holding on to him so tight that they meld into one.

Afterwards, as they lay spent and sweaty, Steve traces the outline of her lips, watching as the color recedes. When all that's left is that soft pink glow, he reluctantly pulls away and heads for the shower and the start of another day. As the water hits his body, he replays the physical act, amazed at how the filter of his emotions colors everything, turning a simple physical act into something passionate and all consuming.

Even when the fire is only coals left to smolder, it's always there.

**Orange – 7:45 a.m.**

Music echoes down the hallway, energetic guitars and drums supporting a woman's voice. The singer is brash and loud, crooning about love and confidence and being strong. Here and there, Darcy's voice can be heard over the chorus, a little bit flat, but just as energetic. She likes to sing in the morning, to get the day started by bouncing around the kitchen to what she calls the worst sort of Pop, that infectious dreck that can be found on any mainstream radio station.

This is her cotton candy moment, the high that kicks the day off right. Steve stands in the kitchen, watching as she rocks back and forth to the rhythm as she slices fruit. She's indulging him today, wearing a slim skirt and high heels - suede pumps the color of a Halloween pumpkin - that change the shape of her legs and the way she moves. She's a bombshell, a force of nature, and she's all his.

Darcy drops the knife and turns to greet him, her faced stretched out in the goofiest approximation of a smile Steve's ever seen. Instead of teeth, there's nothing but tangerine rind. It turns her into a little girl, eyes crinkled and sparkling.

"And here I am without a camera," he says. There's a pile of wedges on the counter, each one sliced with military precision. He grabs one and takes a bite. The flesh is tart and sweet all at the same time, and reminds him of candy.

"Let me see if it still tastes good," Darcy says, dropping her discarded rind on the counter. She grabs a belt loop and tugs him forward. Even in her heels, she's still not tall enough to be at eye level, but a quick hop up onto the counter solves that problem. Now it's her turn for payback, and she sucks gently on his lower lip without ever breaking eye contact. Early morning is his time to attack, to play and provoke, but once she's loaded up on coffee and her cloying music, Darcy is the one in control, and she wields that power with joy. Her hands float, skimming along his chest and down lower, only to dance away if he moves. She abandons his lip, mouth skimming along his jaw, all the while singing. The only time she really, truly stops is when she reaches his neck, her hands clasping tight into the cotton of his shirt as she breathes him in.

It's a hairpin trigger, and he moves on instinct, hands on her knees, slowly sliding up her thighs. He wants to take it further, to maybe even go back to where they were this morning, but Darcy slips down off the counter, grabbing a tangerine wedge as she flees.

"Have to go," she says, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. "Busy day today. Stop by this afternoon? Maybe we can sneak in coffee?"

Darcy flies out of the room, her hips swinging wide thanks to the heels. She should always where heels, Steve thinks.

"Tease!" he calls after her. "Come back and give me a real kiss goodbye!"

"Consider it something to look forward to! Me, tasting like a coffee and caramel!" The apartment door creaks as she opens it. Yet another thing to add to the list of to-do's, along with painting walls and hanging pictures. Maybe on the way in, he'll stop and buy some oil or something. "Don't stand me up, Rogers. Remember, coffee, good!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

She laughs. "Love you!"

The door slams shut, capping the statement and leaving him surrounded by music and the scent of citrus.

**Yellow – 3:26 p.m.**

Steve's halfway down the corridor when the alarm sounds – the harsh, ear-splitting din of klaxons amplified high enough to pierce walls. It's only a moment before the warning lights follow suit, rotating white to amber and around again.

"What's happening?" he shouts, voice lost in the melee. The hallway is thick – people in lab coats, security in dark suits, and finally, a familiar face as Natasha strides confidently through the swirl, her blue eyes narrowed and alert.

"You need to come with me," she says, not breaking stride. "We have an issue."

He was on his way down to meet Darcy for coffee, but Steve forces that to the side for now. His eyes sweep the hallway, taking in the situation. The lights are still active, painting streaks across the walls, but the alarms have silenced, leaving an error sort of emptiness. All non-essentials have cleared out, leaving a handful of security guards, their drawn guns completely ineffective against any sort of real threat.

At the far end of the corridor, there's a blast door, heavy steel streaked with diagonal neon yellow hazard stripes. In all the times that Steve's been down this corridor - carrying coffee, tugging on strands of Darcy's long brown hair, skimming reports and dodging people in the hall who step in his way - this door has never been closed. He's passed it more times than he can count, and never given the barrier a second thought. Why should he, when it's never been an issue? But now it's standing in the way of something, no _someone_ very important, and Steve is suddenly infinitely grateful for all of Darcy's teasing this morning, along with the promise of more over coffee.

"What happened?" he demands again. Natasha's back is to him, her fingers flying over the keypad, typing in override codes and forcing her thumb against the touchscreen for authentication. The panel flashes twice, but does not release.

"Some sort of explosion in Banner's lab. Triggered an automatic lockdown." She continues entering codes, but the results don't change, the panel blinking the same denial of access.

On the wall, next to an eyewash station and an emergency chemical shower is an access panel. Steve rips off the cover, exposing blink lights and a maze of colored wires. He grabs a handful, not caring if they are red or blue or black, and yanks them all free. The circulating lights falter and stop, and the display panel goes black. There's a subtle click, and the tumblers in the blast door disengage, but they do not slide back.

"Watch out," he says, wedging fingers into a small sliver at the far wall. The door groans, stripping gears as it recedes back into the hidden pocket. Natasha slips through the opening, and Steve is hot on her heels, following sounds that would strike fear into even the bravest man – groaning metal and shattering glass, along with the anguished shouts of something that doesn't quite sound human anymore.

**Green – 3:31 p.m.**

It's hard to see anything at first. Jets of vapor, designed to put out fires, discharge at pre-determined increments throughout the lab, obscuring everything in a cloud of white. When the smoke does clear, the destruction is evident - tables upended, monitors smashed. A familiar form lumbers back and forth in front of the observation window, his broad green back heaving with every breath.

When Darcy started working with Dr. Banner, Steve had voiced his concerns. He liked the doctor immensely, but there was always a risk, one that he knew he couldn't tell Darcy to avoid. She always looks for the best in people, and she sees it in Banner, probably more so because of this massive beast trudging back and forth, shattering anything in his path. It's hard to reconcile the mild mannered scientist with this giant mass of rage, who can crush a solid metal workstation with one mighty fist.

Steve knows that one of those tables could very well be shielding Darcy right now, and he needs to find a way to get her out. He's scanning frantically, forcing his fears back into a dark corner so that logic can take over. He needs to find Darcy. Once he knows where she is, he can focus on the situation, removing her from harm's way while Natasha deals with the Hulk – he can't think of him as Dr. Banner now.

But it appears that Darcy has other plans. After all these months together, he should know this, but in sequestering his fear, he's locked away that knowledge too, and now he can only watch as Darcy takes matters into her own hands.

"Bruce, it's okay." She's standing, hands braced against an overturned table. Aside from mussed hair, she looks just like she did when she left this morning, no blood, no bruises, and most of all, no fear. Darcy begins to walk slowly along the table, keeping her hands in plain view. It brings her closer to the window, but she doesn't look around. Her attention is focused exclusively on the Hulk, defusing as much tension as possible.

At the end of the table, she stops, one hand held aloft. The Hulk is watching her, still breathing heavily, but he hasn't moved. Not yet.

"I'm just going to take my shoes off," she says. Her hand is still up, and Steve realizes she's trying to reassure the Hulk that she's not carrying a weapon or anything that might cause harm. "I broke a heel, okay?"

Without waiting for acknowledgement or response, she bows down, dipping out of Steve's sight. The speakers, which pick up the faintest sounds, amplify the clatter of heels on linoleum. When Darcy straightens back up, her motions are slow and methodical. She holds up her hand again, but instead of the cautionary position, palm out like a stop sign, she's holding it aloft, fingers curling up in invitation.

"I know you're hurt," she says, moving slowly forward. "But you aren't going to hurt me. You're not going to hurt anything, because my friend Bruce doesn't like when people get hurt."

She's walking so slowly, making fragments of progress inch by precious inch. The Hulk is glowering at her, nostrils flaring as his breathing accelerates. The Hulk is beyond reason now, too angry to control whatever it is that drives him. All Steve can do is watch, painfully aware of Natasha holding his forearm, a silent urging not to do anything rash.

"Do you remember when we were talking about the posters in the bodega?" Darcy's stopped moving but her hand is still extended, palm up. "And I joked about you being a closet Sting fanatic? I downloaded some of his music after that. He's not really my speed, but there's one song I really liked. It reminded me of you, the way it talked about even through the blood and steel, we manage to forget how fragile we are."

Darcy takes another tentative step forward, and it's only then that Steve realizes what she's doing. The extended hand, the slow approach, it's like she's edging in on a skittish dog, trying to buy his trust. When the Hulk doesn't react, she takes another small step, and she's within his reach now, although not hers. One bat of his hand would smash Darcy against the wall, breaking her neck or back, and Steve's helpless to do a thing. He wants to go through the glass, to throw himself between her and harm, but he knows that the Hulk will smash her before he can ever get close.

"We're all fragile," she says, voice low. "You've seen me at my worst, and now I've seen you. But we're still friends, aren't we?" Darcy takes one more, tentative step, and she's close enough now to touch the underside of his chin. She has to reach up, standing up on tiptoe to make contact, but the Hulk…but Bruce…he doesn't pull away. His shoulders visibly collapse, and his eyes close. It brings him closer to Darcy, who gently strokes her fingers along the underside of his chin, just like she does with Heckle and Jekyll.

Just like she'd done to Steve in the kitchen that very morning.

A knot lodges itself in Steve's throat. It's not until Natasha's released him, and Darcy is safely away that he can even begin to put a name to the emotions that swirl through him.

Pride at how Darcy handled herself. Jealous of the way she touched Bruce. Hope for the way she was learning to trust herself and her abilities. But most of all – relief that she, and as a byproduct, he, will be okay.

**Blue – 4:15 p.m.**

"It's been ages since we've come up here."

The boxes are long gone from their little hideaway at the top of Stark Tower, replaced by metal framing and plastic tarps. Progress marches forward even when no one is watching, and without the need for somewhere to hideaway, others have put this space to use. In a few weeks, office walls will obscure the view of the city skyline. Some lucky executive will horde the view with the little balcony, the people around him blissfully ignorant of the beauty that one office contains.

Darcy sits on the balcony floor, her legs curled up underneath her. Upon closer inspection, there are little signs of damage – snags in her tights, a small cut on her arm, but on the whole, she's unscathed and surprisingly serene.

"The last time I was up here was after that whole incident in Jane's lab," she says, face tilted up to the cloudless sky. "That was just a few months ago, but it feels like ages. Things are so different." She smiles, the corners of her mouth curling up gently. "I'm different."

Fall is fading, and winter looms. Steve can feel it in the air, the way the wind cuts through clothing with a bitter edge. The sky is thinner, less periwinkle, more baby blue. When Steve was little, his mother had dressed him in shades of light blue, insisting that it brought out his eyes. He'd endured endless harassment from the local kids, but he'd suffered it just to make her smile. Sometimes, suffering in silence was the best thing anyone could do, especially when the payoff was something so perfect.

"I'm not scared anymore," she says, her voice soft. "All those months wondering what if, and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but you didn't give up on me. And you know what? Today's the first time I didn't give up on someone else."

She's brilliant, lit up from the inside. It's different from her glow this morning, from the smile in the kitchen. It's the way his mother looked when she smoothed his hair back away from his face – looking at him like all is right in the world.

For the first time in his life, Steve appreciates how the simplest things bring the greatest joy.

**Indigo – 6:08 p.m.**

They walk home, hand in hand. The sun has dropped below the horizon, taking any remaining warmth with it. The city unfolds around them, bright lights and silhouettes against a sky that hovers somewhere between purple and blue. People stare as they pass, but it's hard to tell if they're reacting to him or Darcy's tennis shoes, which are grossly out of place with the tights and slim skirt.

"I think we should go look at dogs this weekend," she says. They're holding hands, and after a few blocks, she's started swinging them back and forth, an easy seesaw that matches their gait. "I know I said let's wait until the spring, but I don't want to wait anymore."

"What changed your mind?"

They're caught at a light, cars flying past, oblivious to the world that spins madly on. Up ahead, a street vendor is closing up for the day, dumping water in the gutter and pinning down the quilted steel covers over Plexiglas windows.

"You did." Darcy squeezes Steve's hand, but doesn't turn his way. "You're just…you're just _you_, and you don't even know it, but it's…." She tilts her head back, laughing. "I don't know, maybe this is what love does, you know? As trite as that sounds, it's true. Five months ago? No way could I have done that with Bruce. But I'm not scared anymore, and it changes everything, you know? It's just…it's just different."

The light changes, and they follow the flow of traffic up Park Avenue. Three more blocks, and they'll turn east onto their street, the old brownstone they were learning to call home looming at the end of the block.

**Violet – 10:24 p.m.**

Darcy lies on her back, stretching the piece of grape taffy out so that she can loop it around her finger. Just when the violet strand is at its breaking point, she lets it fall, catching the string greedily. It's the last piece from the boardwalk excursion, but it's not like when Steve was little. He knows where to find it year round now, so that she's never out.

"Are you tired?"

Other than the taffy pulling, she hasn't moved in at least an hour, the adrenaline giving way to sore muscles and fatigue. Unlike her last run in with mass destruction, Darcy's much calmer this time, capable of bridging the extremities of the day to find a sort of tranquility that wasn't there to draw on the last go around.

"This is what life is going to be like, isn't it?" She's staring at the ceiling, her eyes heavy. "Normal peppered with little pockets of chaos, isn't it?"

Steve wants to tell her no, but he can't. Even if they weren't what they are, Darcy's involvement in this world will always expose her to risk. The only way for her to truly be safe would be to leave, and he's entirely too selfish to accept that.

"Yes."

She nods, and rolls onto her side. "So long as it's little pockets of chaos, and not vice versa. I've got big plans for us, you know, and I'm not going to let those little blips get in the way."

"What sort of plans?"

Darcy hums and closes her eyes. "Really boring stuff. Puppies. Paint. House plants. If we can pull that off, maybe we can graduate to bigger and better things."

The word picture she paints is full of color – black and soft yellow, tender greens and vibrant reds and purples. It brings to mind other things, bright, shining gold and later, pastels in pink and blue. There's no guarantee that the chaos can be controlled, and that normal life will hold sway, but there's hope, and it's enough to propel them all forward.

"Come on," Steve says. He pulls Darcy to her feet, and before she can pull away, easily tosses her over one shoulder. Her laughter rumbles against his back as he carries her to their room. "Let's go practice working on some of those bigger and better things."

_**The spectrum of the rainbow - aka ROY G BIV - Red – Passion. Orange – Happiness. Yellow – Caution. Green – Jealousy/Life. Blue – Peace. Indigo – Trust. Violet – Love.**_


End file.
